Quarter Notes and Starting Over
by turtledoves
Summary: Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to announce Clove Martinelli and Cato Khione, victors of the Seventy-fourth Annual Hunger Games! /With his help, she will learn to deal with the fallout and the prices of being a Victor. AU. For Sara.


**a/n [**_This has a whole bunch of underlying messages. Yes, they are all messages for myself (and anyone else who needs them.) For GGE. And for the monthly contest at c/p. And most importantly, for Sara for Caesar's Palace's New Years Exchange. Happy New Year, darling._**]**

{you are the type of person songs get written about}

{prologue}

It's the dead of night when her final knife flies through the air. There's a dreadful moment of _what if_ before it lands. She holds her breath, lungs deflated, and even when the point buries in her opponent's chest, when the victim lets out one last gasp before falling to her knees, the killer still finds it hard to breathe in again.

Katniss Everdeen's bow falls before she does. Let loose from a failing grip, it clatters to the ground, and its owner follows quickly after. Her tears mix into the dirt as her heartbeat fades.

And she can't stop staring at her last victim. Not because of remorse, oh no, but because she's not quite sure what will happen next. But she doesn't need to think, she needs to breathe, and while she's suddenly gasping for air, a boy with a grin saunters up and kisses her right on the lips.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to announce Clove Martinelli and Cato Khione, victors of the Seventy-fourth Annual Hunger Games!"

{verse i}

When autumn leaves turn brown and fall defeated to the ground, she stands tall and walks to her old home. There's something she'd forgotten those months ago when her family packed everything up and moved into the Victor's Village, ready to start a new life after so many others' had ended. It's hidden under the floorboards in her old room, right under the spot where her bed used to be, and even with the house up for sale, she's positive it's still there.

As she passes through the Village's gates, a voice calls out her name. She waits, not impatiently, though she doesn't turn around to see who it was. She already knows.

"What are you up to, Clove?"

"Just out for a walk."

"Mind if I come?"

It's not really the type of question that needs answering to, so she doesn't bother with it. The company's not a problem, at least not his, and as long as he doesn't pester her with questions then the journey should be fine, and they'll both manage to part afterwards unscathed. (They don't, though—but the fallout is not the same as she was preparing for.)

The wind pulls a bit of hair out from her bun, and she brushes it back before he can, and then off they go, hands swinging by sides, not touching.

There was a time when perhaps she loved him, yes, it's true, but that was a time long ago indeed. It's as if her heart split, that last day in the arena, when the knife landed and it tore away a bit of herself, too. Love seems so irrelevant once you've stared death so closely in the eye. And He tells her, every night when the darkness lurks, Death tells her hello and they share stories and laugh like old childhood friends.

It's hard, sometimes, to remember when she used to laugh with Cato.

Her house is silent and empty when they arrive. It's nothing she didn't already expect, but it's the first time she's seen it like this, so desolate, and she wonders if the echoes of footsteps running down the hall will be gone forever now.

He walks too loudly, she thinks, trailing her hand along the walls as she goes, fingers dipping with each space between the boards. Curious, that's the word; he walks as if this is just another adventure with people to conquer and prizes to steal. He doesn't understand her fear that he will wake the dust with his prideful strides.

When he's occupied, she digs under her floorboards, finding what she came for all along. She carries out, grasped in two hands and held comfortably over her stomach, suddenly not caring in the slightest to what he might think of it.

"Coming?" she asks innocently, walking past the room he's been ducking around in and escaping outside. Hurried feet trail behind her.

Caught up, he pokes at the jar in her arms. "What's with the coins?"

"I was saving them."

Lost things found my the merchants, taken out of pockets when no one was looking, spare change after buying something less expensive than what the intended purchase was, that time when she sold the mint that had sprouted behind her house. She hugged the jar containing them all more tightly to her chest, protecting them.

"For?"

She's fed up with his questions. "It seemed like a good idea."

"What will you do with them, now?"

Her feet stopped as her mind whirred and forgot to keep the muscles working. The jar slipped a bit in her fingers and she dropped to the ground, clutching it like her life depended on it. On this one small jar. Perhaps it did.

"I don't know."

His hands are over hers, soft and gentle like she's never felt them before, and when he speaks, his voice is soothing, too. "Just needed the reminder? Of the past?"

Her eyes are closed too tight, and this must be what being broken feels like, but she finds the courage to nod.

At home, she sets the jar on her dresser in her new bedroom, thinking this is a more reasonable place for memories, and lets it sit for now. Maybe it's okay to hold onto the past for a little bit. Smiling, she turns around and meets Cato back outside on her porch where they sit on the steps and reminisce.

{verse ii}

It seemed that for Cato, blending into a new person titled VICTOR was easy. But for her, the change comes in small doses and vaccines, and by the day she's handing out handfuls of her coins to the thankful hands of children outside the school, she feels like she's finally become the new person she was meant to be.

Her jar is empty on her walk back home, and she swings it carelessly in her hands. The ground beneath her has just seen the first frost of the year, and the inevitability of her slipping and falling and bruising, the jar crashing and breaking, doesn't faze her for a moment. Full of this new confidence, she even hums a tune, a childhood song from the playground, and the music notes dance in bright color before her.

"Hey, Clove." Cato's on his porch steps again, just like he always is, waiting for her to return.

She sits next to him, dropping the jar onto the grass, and kisses him like she hasn't done since that last night in the Games. Her hands grasp the collar of his coat, and she holds on tightly because now that she's got him again she doesn't want to let go. It's too painful to pull away to breathe.

"Hi," she greets back, breaths heavy, then leans in again.

It's almost as if no time had passed at all. In days, they're the couple they were in training when all they had time for was beating each other in practice games and sealing kisses.

They're walking to town one day with the intention of buying a grand cake—because they've come to terms with the fact that they can afford anything now, without reason, and there's nothing better than _because I can_—when Cato bumps his hip into hers, roughly, and she collides with the outside wall of the shoe shop. She stays, for a moment, resting against the wall, her elbow smarting with pain, and plots her revenge. Her footsteps join with his once again, and she wears a serene mask of innocence, but he's still on edge, waiting for her countermove. It's not until they're entering the bakery does he relax, thinking her love for him saved him, and that's when she shoves him to the side, so he hits the doorframe as she walks right in, smiling bigger than the moon.

There's this tightrope, she thinks, and for the longest time Death kept shaking the line, but He hasn't showed up for many a dreams now, so she's regained her balance of who she was and who she was.

Her finger dips into the icing as she cleans up her empty plate, and satisfied, she leans back into the plush mattress. They're lying on Cato's bed, the box of cake sitting on his nightstand, two plates and infinite crumbs scattered around them. He slides over to her, suddenly, his arm secure around her waist. His lips are sweet from icing when they press against hers, and she can't help but move closer, closer, closer.

Her hands run through his hair, down his back, over his chest because she can't keep still, can't get enough. She kisses him like the world is ending, but truthfully she can't remember the world exists at all. Together, entwined under sheets, the only things that matter are exploring hands and fragile skin and staccato heartbeats.

{verse iii}

At once, she's pulled away from her love, Death tears the tightrope from underneath her feet again, and back home, an empty glass jar once filled with a young girl's coins falls off a dresser and shatters.

The next thing she knows, her toes are curling around dew soaked blades of grass and tears are streaming down her cheeks, creating trails to the cliff of her chin where they break free and fall to the ground. She falls with them, her arms curling around her folded legs. The winter night is frozen, and in just her cotton shirt and pants, she's shivering in seconds.

She's not quite sure how she got here, last night she'd collapsed in her bed, overwhelm with tiredness from travelling around on her—their—Victory Tour. She supposes the memories were stirred, dust lifting and trying to settle again, but the nightmares are supposed to be gone, aren't they? Her mind is telling her to scream, but she fights the urge. Now is not the time to wake the entire Village with her own worthless troubles.

It's Cato who comes running, ready to comfort her as always even when he shouldn't have to—it's about time she started taking care of herself, damn it.

"You were gone," he mumbles, helping her to her feet. She lets him help, but scurries from his grasp when she's on her feet. Her palms scrub at her eyes, trying to hide the evidence of tears. The darkness is her shield, and she's grateful for it.

His hands catch hers, steadying her, and she wonders when his love made him soft. This time, though, she lets him near.

"My jar broke," she whispers. _And it set her memories free._

"We'll fix it," he promises.

He leads her inside, she picks up the glass pieces, and they climb back into bed. Heartbeats mix, creating a new lullaby, and she's never before felt completely like herself. (And maybe she's different from before, but if this is what different feels like, then maybe it's all right.)

Death sits at the head of the table for the second time that night, and she sits with him long enough to say goodbye and wish Him well. Simply, He fades away.

The tightrope comes back into view, and she grabs onto the line, hauling herself up, but she doesn't step back on. Instead, she walks away, making her own path, and holding onto her regrets. For this, she is stronger.

{fin}


End file.
